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Monday, May 19, 2008

I'm working on an enormous AN question about god and Tolkien right now, but it won't be ready until tomorrow. Meanwhile, as I've been thinking about both cats (our cat is ill) and medieval stuff, I thought I'd give you a 9th C. poem about a cat written by an Irish monk. The translation is by Eavan Boland.

Pangur bán

Messe [ocus] Pangur bán,

cechtar nathar fria saindán;

bíth a menma-sam fri seilgg,

mu menma céin im saincheirdd

Caraim-se fós, ferr cach clú,

oc mu lebrán léir ingnu;

ní foirmtech frimm Pangur bán,

caraid cesin a maccdán.

Ó ru-biam ­ scél cén scis ­

innar tegdias ar n-oéndis,

táithiunn ­ dichríchide clius ­

ní fris 'tarddam ar n-áthius.

Gnáth-huaraib ar greassaib gal

glenaid luch ina lín-sam;

os me, du-fuit im lín chéin

dliged ndoraid cu n-dronchéill.

Fúachaid-sem fri freaga fál

a rosc a nglése comlán;

fúachimm chéin fri fégi fis

mu rosc réil, cesu imdis.

Fáelid-sem cu n-déne dul,

hi nglen luch ina gérchrub;

hi-tucu cheist n-doraid n-dil,

os mé chene am fáelid.

Cia beimini amin nach ré

ní derban cách a chéle;

mait le cechtar nár a dán

subaigthiud a óenurán.

Hé fesin as choimsid dáu

in muid du-n-gní cach óenláu;

do thabairt doraid du glé

for mumud céin am messe.

Myself and Pangur, cat and sageGo each about our business;I harass my beloved page,He his mouse.

Fame comes second to the peaceOf study, a still dayUnenvying, Pangur's choiceIs child's play.

Neither bored, both honeAt home a separate skillMoving after hours aloneTo the kill

When at last his net wrapsAfter a sly fightAround a mouse; mine trapsSudden insight.